Four Letters
by Verdreht
Summary: After the mess at the school swimming pool, Stiles learns the hard way that there are consequences to treading water for two hours. And when an unexpected - to say the least - visitor shows up, he learns a few other things, too. Sterek "You know," Stiles says, a little bit more steadily than he feels, "four letters, starts with an 'l', ends with an 'e.' That thing."
1. Chapter 1

For a second there, Stiles thought he might've been missing his calling. He knows he's really no good at lacrosse, because it kind of requires a lot of things that he doesn't have. Things like hand-eye coordination and lightening quick reflexes and an overwhelming desire to brutally maim his fellow man….

So, yeah, no, lacrosse maybe isn't so much his thing. But after last night…or this night…eh, semantics. Anyway, he actually thought he could totally have a future in Olympic swimming. Seriously, two hours treading water has to be some sort of record. He was actually giving serious thought to checking out the school swim team. Because they could _really_ use the help. The Speedos would take some getting used to, but if the last few months had shown him anything – other than enough material to fuel his nightmares for the foreseeable…forever – it's that he's pretty adaptable. And not for nothing, but he could totally pull off that look. Just…maybe not as well as some people.

Cough_. Derek. _Cough_._

And then there's _that_ visual.

So, yeah, there for a little while at least, he had it all figured out. He dozed off at his desk browsing through the Guinness World Records on his laptop and planning what he, in his sleep-deprived and post-adrenaline-rush delirium, was sure would be a very promising career in competitive swimming.

That lasted all of about two hours. Which is actually better than some of his other career aspirations, to be honest. When he was ten, he wanted to be a mime, and that had only lasted all of about seven-point-three minutes: the exact amount of time it had taken for his mom to explain to him just what mimes did or, more specifically, did _not_ do.

But that's beside the point.

The point is, assuming he ever actually had one to begin with, which is chancy at best, is that he has some second thoughts when he snorts himself awake a couple hours later. Like 'regretting my decisions, why is this my life?' kind of second thoughts, because holy _God_, he hurts in his everywhere.

It takes him a good minute or two to even peel his face off the keyboard, and honestly, he's not really sure it's worth the trouble. It feels kind of like his brain's been mashed into apple sauce: it doesn't really hurt, so that's good, but it's just kind of oozy-sloshy around inside his skull. And now that he thinks about it, his keyboard doesn't make such a bad pillow after all. You know, if you can get past the whole asdfg-on-the-face thing.

Stiles thinks he definitely can, especially if it's between that and trying to drag himself across the few hundred miles that seem to have sprung up between his desk and his bed.

He shifts a little and doesn't think about how, if he's this sore now, what he's gonna feel like in the morning. He doesn't think about how sleeping in the desk probably isn't helping, either. And he definitely, _definitely_ doesn't think about the stupid amount of nightmares about drowning he's gonna have for the next few months.

They'll probably be a nice break from all the ones about freakish, murderous reptiles trying to kill him and his friends.

On second thought, maybe sleeping isn't such a good idea. He's still got a lab report to do for chemistry, and God knows Harris already has it out for him enough without throwing late work into the mix. Seriously, he thinks he might be spending more time around that creeper of a science teacher than with his own family.

"Talk about your cruel and unusual punishment," he mumbles to no one in particular. Emphasis on 'no-one,' who is precisely whom Stiles is expecting to hear him.

Which is pretty much why he jumps like he's been shot when a voice at his window comes out of nowhere and says, "You really don't stop talking, do you?"

"Holy—" In his mad rush to spin his chair around towards the window, he ends up knocking over his lamp, his pencil holder, and pretty much every other freaking thing on his desk that makes noise when it falls. A lot of noise. He winces, partly because he moved too fast and his sore muscles didn't like that too much, and partly because his dad's just a few doors down the hall. He doesn't want to wake him up; he's got an early morning.

Concerned as he is about his dad's beauty sleep, though, he's kind of got bigger problems right now. _Way_ bigger. And broodier. And just all around more badass.

So, yeah. Derek Hale is definitely sitting on his window sill. That's…that's just super.

"Wha—" His voice cracks, and he tries to cover it up with a cough, even though he's pretty sure it's kind of pointless. Derek being a human…well, _super_human lie detector and all. Still, he's done some pretty irrational things the last twenty-four hours – jumping into an eight-foot pool after a paralyzed Alpha werewolf, for example – so he figures, why stop now? He gives it another shot. Who knows? Maybe this time he'll manage to do it without regressing to puberty. "How long have you been standing there?" Oh, cool. That one actually manages to sound halfway casual. Go team.

Derek's eyebrow ticks a little, but he doesn't say anything. That's okay, though, Stiles thinks, because his eyebrows are pretty much their own language. Google Translate should have a tab for them. Maybe he'll write a letter about that, too.

That can wait, though, because for now, Stiles has a thought. "Dude," he says, "were you watching me sleep?"

Truth be told, he's kind of expecting Derek to glare at him, or maybe threaten to rip his throat out – he must like that threat, Stiles's decided, because it's kind of his default – for even having the berries to _suggest_ such a thing.

But Derek doesn't do either of those things. Actually, and maybe this is just the exhaustion talking, but Stiles could swear he even sees one corner of his lips twitch. "Yeah." He says it like it's totally normal, like there's absolutely nothing wrong with sneaking in someone's window at two in the morning and creeping on them while they sleep. "You were still talking."

"What can I say? I got mad skills." He leans back all smug-like, because two can play that game, Derek. Except apparently gravity missed the memo on the whole 'trying to be cool' thing, because his chair starts to tip back and he has to jerk forward to keep from falling backwards in a heap of soreness, clumsiness, and bad office furniture.

Color him a pessimist, but he's starting to get the impression that this just really isn't his day.

As soon as he gets his equilibrium back and balance is returned to the Force, he looks back up and pretends that, not only did that _definitely_ not just happen, but that he also doesn't notice Derek standing at least three feet closer than before.

Freaking werewolf super-speed. Because it's not enough that he's crazy strong and frankly ridiculously good looking—

Stop.

Process.

Reconsider?

Nope. No, he's sticking with it. Derek is definitely at least a ten, although Stiles is actually thinking, out of fairness to normal people like himself, that guys like Derek should get their own scale. Stop messing up the curve.

"—iles!"

Stiles jumps so hard, he actually goes vertical. Upright, at attention, feet on the ground and everything.

…for all of about three seconds.

Suddenly, every muscle in his legs decides now would be a _great_ time to remind him of those two hours he spent treading water, and _oh, hey, we didn't forget the whole 'running for your life' thing, either,_ and he can pretty much hear the massive 'nope!' as they all give out at once.

Needless to say, he's expecting to taste carpet any time now. Which sucks, because he doesn't think he's vacuumed in, like, a year. Who knows what's waiting for him in that berber? He might've been better off taking his chances with the kanima. Seriously, he…he….

He totally forgot to take his Adderall last night.

Super.

Because what he really needs, on top of the next best thing to Kanima Poisoning and a broody werewolf that's making him reconsider his 'interested in' status on Facebook, is to have the attention span of a squirrel on speed. But hey, at least he hasn't face-planted into the carpet, yet. Which, now that he thinks about it, doesn't make a whole lot of sense, because it feels like it's been a little while since he started falling, and he definitely should've hit the ground by—

Two vices tighten around his upper arms. "Stiles!"

_Oh_.

Stiles opens his eyes – he doesn't actually remember closing them, but he guesses he must've – and finds himself face to scruffy, intense-looking face with the status-changing Alpha himself.

It's like a car crash in his head. All his racing, errant, out-of-control thoughts screech to a halt, and he's really not sure how long he just stands there blinking, but he thinks it's probably safe to say he'd be embarrassed if he did. It's just…Derek's got this…_look._ His mouth is set in a hard line like it usually is, and his brows are all furrowed like _they_ usually are, and it all looks pretty cut-and-dry sourwolf.

Except his eyes. His eyes aren't what Stiles is used to seeing. They're wider than normal, sharp; they look almost…freaked out. Or, at least, as close to it as Derek gets. _Perturbed_ is probably a better word for it. Maybe…worried, even? He doesn't know. He's pretty good at reading the other looks, but this one's kind of throwing him.

He's confused. And normally, that doesn't bother him all that much, because he's got a laptop right there, and a few hours of Google searches usually do a lot to satisfy his curiosity. Tonight…this morning, he guesses, he's just…not feeling it. In the past forty-eight hours, he's been paralyzed by a murderous lizard monster, watched a mechanic get crushed underneath his precious Jeep, had said Jeep impounded, been attacked by a she-wolf, attacked again by said lizard monster, and used as a floatation device for _two freaking hours_.

He's just a little bit tired.

And since there's a pretty short list of things Derek could be coming to him about, instead of, say, Scott, and most of those involve long hours of consciousness and concentration – honestly, he's not really thrilled about either – he's thinking it's probably best to just nip this in the bud.

"Can it wait 'til morning?" he says, only to remember that it actually _is_ morning, and Derek's kind of a smartass, in his own, non-emotive way. "Or, you know, like…noon-ish?"

Derek's brows furrow deeper, and the corners of his lips pull down into a confused frown. "What?"

Okay, yeah, that was a little non-sequitur. He can fix that. "This whole Q&A thing, I mean. You ask me what I know, I tell you I don't know anything, you glare at me and threaten to tear my throat out with your crazy white teeth, and I eventually crack and tell you everything you're asking – the whole shebang. Can we just, you know, _not_ right now?"

"I'm not here to—"

"'Cause I know your whole wolf super healing thing is _super_ cool and all." He waves his hands illustratively, and ends up nearly losing his balance for his trouble. Derek's hands on his arms are the only things keeping him upright. Somehow, though, after the thing at the pool, Stiles really just can't even sweat it. He just keeps right on going. "But some of us need this silly little thing—"

"Stiles, if you don't shut up now, I'm going to make you."

"—called sleep, which is kind of what I'd like to get back to doing, if we're all—" Suddenly, Stiles is pulled forward by his arms, and something crushes against his lips with enough force to shut them, but not enough to hurt.

It takes Stiles longer than it probably should to realize that Derek's kissing him.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he catches on, it's already over. Derek's stepping back, and if Stiles could manage to string words together or, you know, make his mouth remember how to work, he'd probably be asking for a do-over. Because seriously, Derek-freaking-Hale just laid one on him, and he wasn't even paying attention. That's like missing the winning goal at the championship game, except _so_ much worse, because a championship isn't _kissing Derek-freaking-Hale_. Seriously, what is his life right now?

"So this is what it's like when you're quiet."

Derek's voice startles Stiles out of his head. He'd like to pretend he doesn't jump, or at least that Derek doesn't notice, but even if Derek wasn't super-wolf, he's still holding onto Stiles's shoulders. It'd be pretty hard for him not to notice, just like it's hard for Stiles not to notice the way his grip tightens briefly.

Strangely, it kind of grounds him. "What was that?" he manages to stammer out.

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"That—that thing." He unconsciously runs his tongue over his lips, and he thinks…he thinks he can still taste him, like cinnamon toothpaste and something he can't identify but thinks he kinda likes. "What you just did, just now."

"You mean kissing you," Derek supplies dryly.

Stiles nods. "Yeah, that," he says. "Why? Why did you do that?"

Derek's eyebrow drops, and he's scowling again. Which sucks, Stiles thinks, because he was starting to get kind of hopeful that this conversation would be different than _every other conversation they've ever had_. Partly because most of those conversations end with his life in grave peril, but also…well, color him a romantic, but the whole 'kissing you' thing had kind of given him the impression that things might've changed. Maybe they bonded over their time in the pool.

Or maybe not.

Instead of an answer, Derek just gives him a look that says, 'Did you _really_ just ask me that,' and lets go of his shoulders. As he turns and walks back towards the still-open window, Stiles feels a sudden flash of something that feels weirdly like panic. He didn't mean to piss him off or…you know, whatever Derek is right now, because it's kind of hard to tell with his back turned.

He tries to play it off. "Not that I'm complaining or anything," he says, rubbing his short hair. "Or that I wouldn't, you know…do it again." Because he would, in a heartbeat. And that should really scare him a lot more than it does, because this is _Derek_ _Hale_: stupidly attractive Alpha werewolf with a bad bark and an even worse bite. He's _killed_ _people_; that alone should send him screaming in the opposite direction, or at least to the Sheriff sleeping a couple doors down the hall.

But he doesn't. Honestly, the thought doesn't even really cross his mind. Because even though Derek is all of those things, he's not _just_ those things. He's also Derek Hale: guy that's saved his life, like, four times _that he even knows of_. He's not just the Big, Bad Wolf.

Well, he's not just bad. The other two are pretty spot-on.

And oh, hey, has his carpet always been this interesting? Because it is _really_ interesting. That pattern…. Of course, his new discovery has _nothing_ to do with the fact that Derek's turned back around to look at him, because…_pft_. Just _pft_.

Still, when Derek doesn't say anything, when seconds of heavy silence tick by with Derek's gaze burning holes in the top of Stiles's head, he eventually can't help it: he looks up.

There it is. That _Look_. Capital 'L', italicized, because this one's different from the ones he's used to. He's not scowling, or even really frowning, but he definitely looks dead serious and really determined about…_something_. Stiles has no idea what.

He doesn't like having no idea what.

He'll blame it on the fatigue – he's not usually so forward or, you know, stupid – but his legs are starting to feel a little shaky again, and he'd really like to get to bed before there's another gravity surge.

"So, this has been great," he says eventually, and he's almost ridiculously happy when his voice comes out even. "Really, just…_great_. But I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you didn't come all the way here to, you know…."

"Kiss you," Derek supplies in a voice that's a little too deadpan to be helpful.

Stiles snaps and points, like 'exactly'. "Yeah, that. Because I feel like that was kind of spur-of-the-mom…" Derek's looking at him pointedly, and he realizes he's rambling again, "…ment." Because he couldn't leave it hanging. That's it, though; he takes a deep breath. "What do you need?"

Derek studies him for a second, then, "Answers."

And the award for vaguest responses goes to….

"Forty-two," Stiles says without thinking. He notices Derek's bland expression, though. "Not a big _Hitchhiker's_ fan, huh?" To himself, he adds, "Why am I not surprised?"

"Stiles." Derek's voice has a steadiness Stiles's could only ever aspire to. Even if he is gritting it through his teeth. "Stop talking."

"How can I answer if I can't talk?"

"I haven't asked the question yet."

Stiles opens his mouth to fire off another smart, probably ill-advised retort, but stops short and closes his mouth.

That seems to please Derek. He thinks it does, anyway. He doesn't smile, but he looks like he's having to fight a little less hard not to stride across the room and smash Stiles's head into the desk. "You remember our conversation in the pool?"

"I'm repressing the whole experience as we speak," Stiles lies. Not that he wouldn't want to; he just knows he can't. "But yeah, I can probably remember a thing or two." Or, like, the whole thing. He could probably recite it back verbatim if he really wanted to, but something tells him there's a good chance that could end with him eating computer desk. He thinks he'll pass, thanks. "Why?" And then it dawns on him. "You're not mad about me letting you go, are you? 'Cause you know I didn't have a choice. You didn't drown, anyway, so I'm not even sure it counts."

This time, Derek actually waits for him to finish. "You done?" he says.

"I probably should be."

"Yeah."

Stiles purses his lips. "Yeah…."

Silence falls for a few seconds after that, and it's not so much uncomfortable as just really, really tense. Like, he doesn't feel that usual pressure to fill the silence, but at the same time, he wants _someone_ to, if only because he doesn't want the sound of his own heartbeat to be the only thing in the room. The fact that Derek's got his wolf-hearing and is probably hearing it just as loud – if not louder – than he is really doesn't help.

He's so relieved when Derek finally starts to speak that he almost misses what he says.

"I was wrong."

Yeah, he definitely misheard that. "What?"

Derek narrows his eyes, and Stiles instantly regrets opening his mouth. "I said, 'I was wrong.' Do I need to repeat it again?"

"Nope." _And_ the voice cracks are back. He clears his throat, shakes his head, and tries again. "Nope, I heard you." He's just having a little trouble believing what he's hearing. And because he's feeling brave, he asks, "What were you wrong about?"

"You."

Stiles falters. "Me?"

"Do you have water in your ears or something?" Derek growls.

"That's a distinct possibility." Not joking, his ears are actually kind of achy. The left one, mostly. It's just aren't really making that big of a splash with the rest of his all-over ache. And no, he doesn't miss the pun.

That must not be what Derek wants to hear, because he frowns, and Stiles really isn't sure what to think when he starts towards him. Each step is slow, deliberate. His shoes barely make a sound on the carpet, but Stiles swears he can still hear each and every one of them. And when they stop, Derek's standing _right there_, right in front of him. No more than a foot between them, and Stiles may not have a super-sniffer, but he can freaking _smell him_ – something earthy and natural and that same something _else_ that he can't quite place – and wow, that's so much better than the chlorine he just can't seem to get out of his nose. They should bottle that. _Eau de Derek_. It'd make millions.

A hand coming towards his face snaps him out of his head and makes him flinch. His hand-eye coordination may be for crap, but these last few months have made his flinch reflex pretty freaking phenomenal.

For all the good it does him. Derek just frowns deeper, and Stiles may as well just not have moved, because he doesn't stop until he's got Stiles's chin, turning his head a little to the side and leaning in closer. Stiles could swear he hears him sniff him, but before he gets a chance to ask – assuming he could even make his voice work – Derek leans back.

"Idiot."

"Why am I an idiot?" He should probably be worried about how whiny that sounded, but he just really, really can't care.

"It's infected."

"No kidding?" Stiles makes a face. "That's...kinda nasty."

Derek rolls his eyes and drops his hand. "It's just swimmer's ear. You'll live."

"I better. Because if I die of an ear infection playing human floatie for you, I'm so coming back to haunt you. And if you think I talk a lot no-ow!" Stiles yelps, clamping a hand over his ear. "You just flicked me!"

"It got your attention, didn't it?"

Stiles doesn't dignify that with an answer. And if he's pouting, then can you really blame him? He's sore, he's tired, and according to Doctor Derek here, he's got an ear infection. The last thing he needs is another hurt and a crap ton of mixed signals to sort through.

"Why did you do it?"

Derek's question kind of comes out of nowhere, so Stiles thinks it's perfectly understandable when he comes back with a confused, "Huh?"

"At the pool…I said you didn't let me go because you needed me to survive, but I was wrong."

"Uh…thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess," Stiles says awkwardly, because he's really not sure where this is going, "but I'm pretty sure I couldn't have taken on the kanima all by my lonesome."

"No, but you could've let me go," Derek says, and he says it like it's obvious. Like it's _logical_. "You could've stayed in the water until Scott came or until it got bored and left. You didn't have to hold me up."

Of all the possible times Stiles could laugh, he realizes later that this is probably a really bad one. He just can't help it; it's his kneejerk reaction to uncomfortable situations. "Right," he says sarcastically, "'cause what I _should've_ done is let you sink to the bottom like the freaking Titanic. Silly me."

"Stiles." It's a warning. _This is serious_, it says.

For some reason, though, Stiles bristles. "What?" he snaps. "What do you want me to say? You really think I could've just let you drown? You really think I could've just let you die if there was something I could do about it?" Just the thought of it... "Don't you get it? I spent two hours in that pool holding you up. I helped you track down your uncle, I helped you bust Isaac out of jail. Don't you think if I was gonna let you die, I'd have done it sooner? You know, _before_ all the near-death experiences?" He lets out a frustrated growl that doesn't sound nearly as deep or impressive as any of Derek's, but it's the best he's got, and he scrubs his hands through his short hair roughly. "God, do I have to take a bullet for you or something? Do I have to take the Bite? Seriously, Derek, what's it gonna take before you freaking trust me?"

"I already do." But it doesn't quite register, and Stiles is about to keep going on his rant until Derek grabs his arms again, this time almost hard enough to hurt. "Stiles, shut up!" he barks, and Stiles does the only thing he can do.

He shuts up.

The effect is immediate, and he can almost _see_ Derek's hackles going back down. The grips on his arms loosen, too, and Derek's hands move down a little, closer to his elbows. "What I was trying to tell you," Derek says after a minute, his voice low and measure, "is that I already do. Trust you." He takes a step closer, and _holy God_, Stiles can actually feel the heat from his chest, they're that close. And it really shouldn't feel as good as it does, but it does, and he won't bother blaming that on exhaustion. "You're the only one here that doesn't have his own agenda."

"That's why you trust me? Because I have nothing better to do than help you—"

For the second time that night, the rest of his words are lost against Derek's lips. And Stiles wants to be indignant, because it's kind of rude to keep cutting him off, especially without some sort of explanation, but he can't really bring himself to mind.

Besides, it's definitely better than getting his throat ripped out. Derek's mouth is warm against his, and it's the kind of heat that seeps in and forces out the chill that's lingered since he first got out of the pool. His hands are, too – one on his jaw, and the other on his hip, and Derek's grip isn't hard enough to hurt, but it's enough to pull him closer, until he's flush up against him. And he doesn't know if it's a werewolf thing or just a Derek thing, but Stiles thinks he's definitely warmer than a normal person.

Not that he has a whole lot of experience getting close to people, you know…like this. Ever. Which he's kind of regretting now, because he feels like he should do something – he _wants_ to do something – but he has absolutely no idea what to do. He's just standing there like a freaking plebe until Derek leans back.

"I trust you," he says. His voice has this rasp to it that Stiles can almost feel in his own chest, and it makes his face heat up. He doesn't offer any more explanation than that, but Stiles realizes that he really doesn't need to. Derek trusts him.

_Derek_ trusts _him_. Stiles. The human. The not-part-of-his-pack, socially awkward, accident prone human.

When did _that_ happen?


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles doesn't realize he's drifted again until Derek uses the hand on his jaw to tip his head up, and wow, you could weaponize those eyes. Stiles almost can't blink. Their faces are so close, he can feel the warmth of Derek's breath on his face as he begins to speak again.

"I need you to trust me, too, Stiles."

"I trust you," is Stiles's knee-jerk reply. Because he does. In a life-or-death situation, there aren't a whole lot of people he trusts _more_. "I mean, you're like a one man army. A wolf man army." He smiles a little at his own joke, but the smile falls when he sees Derek still has that _Look_. "…and that's not what you're talking about, is it?"

"No."

"So…what, then?"

But Derek doesn't answer. Not verbally, anyway, like a normal person, which really shouldn't surprise him, because Derek is _not_ a normal person. And Stiles thinks he's freakishly okay with that.

Except when Derek starts to push him backwards, and he knows his room well enough to know that the bed is that way, and no, he's pretty sure his heart's not supposed to do that. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says quickly, even as his feet shuffle back along the carpet. He's trying to stop, really, trying to plant bare feet in the carpet, but it's just not working. His mouth is working just fine, though. "Hey, I trust you, too, and I definitely like kissing you and, just, _you_ in general, but don't you think this is moving kind of fast? I mean, I'm not _opposed_ to it or anything, like later on." He _is_ a teenager after all, with all the hormones and awkwardness that entails, and Derek is a really attractive guy for whom he's pretty sure he has more-than-friendly feelings. "But I kinda only just figured out you didn't want to kill me like two minutes ago, so maybe we should at least—"

Without warning, his knees buckle, and Stiles lets out a yelp that he hopes, for the sake of his fragile male ego, that they will never, ever mention. He doesn't fall, though. Nope, Derek's got that covered. It looks like Stiles's ego's not making it out of this intact, though, because before he can even get a protest out, Derek's bending low and hooking an arm under his knees and suddenly, he's airborne.

"Oh my God." His stomach does a flip, and he's not sure if that's the sudden change of altitude, or what, but it's not good. He really wants to be down, now. Like, right now. But the more he squirms, the tighter Derek holds him.

"Hold still," Derek growls.

"I'm freaking out!" Stiles snaps back, because seriously, what the hell is going on? He was gonna have a nice hibernation on his laptop, maybe do some homework, and even eventually drag himself to bed. Instead, he's getting carried to bed by a freaking _werewolf_, who, by the way, just kissed him not once, but twice, and made some sort of confession that Stiles is still trying to figure out the significance of, but he knows there is one. So he _thinks_ a little bit of a freak out is totally within reason.

But Derek doesn't let him down. Instead, he leans in close to Stiles's ear, until his breath tickles Stiles's neck enough to make him shudder, and in a low voice, he says simply, "Trust me."

And suddenly, Stiles gets it. He's not talking about trusting him with his life. Not talking about trusting him not to let some creepy monster rip out his insides or something equally nightmare-inducing. He's not talking about any of that; what he's talking about something a whole lot deeper, a whole lot more important. He's talking about something that starts with an 'l' and ends with an 'e,' and even though Stiles can't really narrow it down any more than that, it's definitely something to think about.

He's so busy thinking about it, he realizes he kind of spaces out for a second, because the next thing he knows, Derek's sitting him down on his bed like he doesn't weigh anything at all. Stiles can tell he's being careful, which is definitely adding fuel to the 'l—e' fire, but it doesn't help a lot when all his muscles do that cool little 'push all the air out of his lungs' thing when he lands. And that's really just super, because it all comes out in a grunt, and he sees Derek's frown deepen.

"You're hurt." It's not a question.

"I'm sore," Stiles says. He's going for levity, and he thinks it only falls a little bit flat. "There's a difference. Sore is okay."

"Not to me."

_Well, okay then_. Screw Hallmark; Derek can say three words that don't even _sound_ like something sweet and still make Stiles feel like he's swallowed a massive hoard of butterflies. Very manly, totally-not-sappy-at-all butterflies.

The sad thing is, Stiles could talk for hours and still not stumble across something half that meaningful, and believe him, he's tried. But then again, he's not sure the one he was saying it to would've cared even if he _had_ said something like that.

"Hey."

He blinks his eyes open – did he close them again? He's really tired – and he realizes that Derek's sitting on the side of his bed, looking at him with something that looks a lot like worry, but Stiles isn't sure he's optimistic enough to believe it.

Still, "I'm good," he says. "Hunky dory." Especially now that he's horizontal, because like this, not moving, his muscles don't feel quite so shredded. He decides right then and there that he's not gonna move again unless the house is burning down or something. Maybe even not then. He's got Derek, right? Dude could probably just toss him out the window or something. Maybe he'd get lucky and land in a bush.

"I'm not going to toss you out a window."

Stiles blinks again, and huh, since when did he have blankets on. Did Derek tuck him in?

"You were shivering," Derek says blandly.

Because he's cold. Duh.

Derek's lip kind of twitches. "Duh."

Stiles stops. Okay, one's incident. Two's coincidence. But three, that's a pattern. And unless telepathy is on the list of wolf powers he and Scott just haven't stumbled across yet, Derek's got some 'splainin' to do.

He's about to tell him so when Derek cuts him off. "You're saying all this out loud, Stiles." And his voice is this weird mixture of exasperated and…fond, Stiles thinks. Definitely fond. "You really don't stop talking, do you?"

Stiles laughs a little. "Guess not. Sorry?"

"Don't be." But then Derek stands, and Stiles thinks that maybe he should be sorry after all, if he's done something to make Derek leave. And even though he promised himself he wouldn't move, he finds himself reaching out and snagging the back of Derek's black t-shirt.

Derek turns, and Stiles watches his eyes flick down to his hand. If he were any more with it – that is to say, if his head didn't feel like it was scooped out and stuffed with feathers and half-congealed Jell-O – Stiles would probably be removing his hand before Derek does…from the rest of his body.

But he's not. With it, that is, and his head _does_ feel like it's been scooped out and stuffed with feathers and half-congealed Jell-O. He worked hard to get his arm up, anyway, as his shoulders are apparently pretty eager to remind him.

Besides, he kind of likes to think that they've reached a new place in their relationship that doesn't involve quite so many threats of violence and bodily harm. So he leaves his hand right where it is, because honestly, he's too sore to move it and too tired to want to.

"Before you bite my head off," he says instead, "just…stay, okay? Just stay." Because it hits him all of the sudden, like a shot of cold lead straight through his veins: he doesn't want to be alone. Or just…he doesn't want to be away from Derek. He's warm. He's safe.

He's alive.

That—that last one's really the biggie, the whole 'Derek's alive' thing. If anything had gone differently tonight, if he hadn't been able to get to him fast enough, hadn't been able to keep swimming long enough…he might not be. And it hurts, but Stiles knows that's really not because of him. It was Scott that saved them, when he couldn't reach the diving board. It was Scott that pulled them out. If he hadn't been there...Derek wouldn't be here.

Somehow, a couple of sore muscles and waterlogged ear canals don't seem so bad by comparison.

"Relax," Derek says. He's smiling, too.

It settles Stiles's nerves a little bit, and he even manages a scoff. "Psh, I am relaxed." Derek doesn't look convinced, so Stiles forces himself to let go of his shirt and cross his arms behind his head. The jury's still out on which one of those two things is actually harder. "I'm _totally _relaxed."

Derek eyes him skeptically for a second, but then, "Right." And he turns to leave.

"Hey!" It slips out before Stiles can stop himself. Not that he would've, but it would at least've been nice to get the chance. But no, it's out there, and he's sitting up. He's not really sure what he's planning to do after that – actually standing and going after him seems like it might be a little bit ambitious, now that his legs feel like not-even-a-little-bit-al-dente noodles.

Luckily, it doesn't come to that. "I'll be back," Derek tells him, and it's a sure sign that he's running on empty that Stiles can't even muster up a good Terminator joke.

"I'll be here," is all he can string together. That, and a smile that's probably a lot goofier than he cares to think about, so he doesn't. He flops back down on the bed, drags the blankets back up, and lets his chlorine-stung eyes finally close like they've been wanting to do ever since his adrenaline rush bottomed out.

He's vaguely aware of the sound of a door opening, but it's quiet. Far off. Kind of like it's down at the end of a really long hallway, and all he's getting is the echo. Any other sounds barely even register over the chorus of '_ahhh_'s and '_thankyouthankyouthankyou_'s coming from his musculoskeletal system.

He must've dozed off, because he's in that dark, floaty place between sleeping and awake where everything's warm and nothing hurts. Except….

It starts as a tickle. Just a weird little sensation in his ear that he doesn't really mind at first. But then it happens again, only it gets worse. The itch gets sharper, and it's cold, and…and wet. Something's dripping in his ear. Drip. Drip. Dri—

Stiles shudders violently and smacks at his ear. He's hoping, a little incoherently, that he'll catch whatever's doing that weird thing with his ear, because, ugh, it feels unnatural. Gross. Trickley and clicky and just…_ugh_. He wants it to stop.

But when he slaps at his ear, he doesn't catch anything. Nothing but air. He knows there's something there, though, so with a frustrated huff, he peels his eyes open and starts to push himself up.

A hand settles on his shoulder, firm and warm, and holds him in place on his side. "Hold still." It's Derek's voice. Derek's hand. Derek's weight pulling down the bed behind him. "You're okay."

And Stiles can't really argue with that, because he feels pretty okay right now, all things considered.

Still, when another drop of that whatever-it-is hits his ear, he jerks his head around and glares his best attempt at daggers at Derek.

His best attempt doesn't seem to have much effect on Derek – in his defense, the guy's like the King of Glares…or the Alpha of…well, you get the point – who's just sitting there with that darn eyebrow raised and an utterly unapologetic look on his face.

Stiles eyes flicker from said face of utter unapologetic-ness to his other hand, the one that's not _still_ holding Stiles's shoulder. He's holding one of the waxy paper cups from Stiles's bathroom, and he's got it pinched up at the top so that it looks like the lips of the cup are pressed together. Stiles doesn't have to ask to know that's the culprit.

"What is that?" he says, eyeing the cup.

Derek's nose twitches in a way that would be kinda…adorable, if it didn't look like he'd smelled something funny. "Rubbing alcohol."

And that would be why.

"O_kay_….And _why_ were you dripping it into my ear like some sort of chemistry experiment?" For a second, he has the completely irrational fear that he's trying to cover up the smell or something. Which is, in fact, completely irrational, he tells himself, because Derek had to lean in close before to smell it, and rubbing alcohol doesn't exactly smell like roses, either.

"It dries it out," Derek tells him, and now that Stiles is really listening, he can tell it sounds like Derek's trying not to breathe through his nose. Definitely not like roses, and Stiles thinks that's kind of sweet, because he's still sticking around and doing it, even if it smells like it's burning the hairs out of his nose. "So turn back around and let me finish."

Derek sounds a lot less intimidating when he's mouth-breathing, Stiles thinks. Or maybe he's just not trying to be intimidating. He's still firm, and his voice is about as dry as Stiles wished he'd been a few hours ago, but there's _something_ _else_ there. That's the thing with Derek. There's always that _something else_ that he can't quite place, but it makes him feel warm and fuzzy and all that fun stuff. It makes him feel kinda…special, too. Not special like 'special ed,' even though he's pretty sure there've been times Derek makes him feel like that, too. Times he just feels kind of derp, because Derek's so cool and he's so…not.

But no, it's not like that right now. It's like…it's like he's the only one that gets to see that something else, gets to see what's behind all the growling and the scowling, and that makes him feel important somehow.

He barely even notices the next drop of alcohol in his ear. It's not until he hears the thud of shoes on the floor that he even realizes he's gotten up, and he manages to roll over enough to see behind him.

And Derek promptly, with two fingers on his temple, pushes his head back to the side. "Hold still," he repeats.

It's a lot easier said than done, though. Especially because what little he'd gotten to see when he'd turned around had been Derek tugging his shirt off over his head. What can he say? He's curious.

He doesn't stay that way for long, though, because the bed dips behind him and he feels the very familiar, _very_ welcome warmth of his personal favorite Alpha settling in around him. He doesn't realize how cold he is until he realizes how warm he _can_ be.

Behind him, Derek pulls up the covers, and there's a flash of cool air from outside his makeshift cocoon before what feels a little bit like an electric blanket presses up right along his back. He tries to turn around, but Derek's arm curls around his waist and holds him in place, and he can't even bring himself to be mad, because sore muscles aside, he doesn't think he's ever been so comfortable in his life.

When Derek's knee accidentally bumps into the back of his own, though, he can't help hissing. Reflex makes his leg jerk, which only makes it hurt worse, all the way up his back and down to his toes, and he groans, because oh God, he's never, _never_ doing that again. Ever.

"Relax, Stiles," Derek says. "Relax." His hand snakes up the front of Stiles's shirt, pressing flat against his chest, and suddenly, relaxing is both the easiest thing and the hardest thing to do. Especially when the heat begins to spread from Derek's hands, like it's going through his veins.

He shifts, but Derek just holds him closer, and he's muttering something in Stiles's ear, but he can't focus enough on what it is. The feeling just keeps spreading, down his legs, down his arms, and it's like this…_tension_ releases. The pain eases with it, slowly, until it's a little less 'I tore every muscle in my body' and a little more 'I overdid it at lacrosse practice.' And it's great, because it feels like he can finally breathe again.

"What was that?" he manages to say, but his tongue feels weirdly heavy and thick and awkward, so he's not sure if it translates well.

"It's not telepathy," Derek says. Stiles can almost _hear_ the smirk, but he just smiles in return. Derek's a smartass; this is not news. And frankly, he likes him just fine this way.

"Thanks."

Derek tightens his arm around Stiles's waist and presses his nose to the back of his head. "You trust me now?"

"You say trust," Stiles replies in his best Samuel L. Jackson impersonation. Which, to be honest, is a pretty awful Samuel L. Jackson impersonation. "I kinda think you mean the other thing."

"What other thing?"

Stiles doesn't have to look to know Derek's giving him a weird look. He knows that one flew _right_ over Derek's head, like every other pop culture reference he makes. Maybe he should make him watch some movies or something, especially if they're gonna be spending more time together. Which he thinks they should, you know, after all this. Yeah, definitely. He should get everyone together – maybe even Derek's leather-loving lycos, because he's sure they can't be all bad – hit some cinematic high notes, if for no other reason than so that he can talk to them without a translator. He's thinking _all_ the Star Wars movies, maybe some Monty Python, and _definitely _Hitchhiker's…Mel Brooks couldn't hurt, and there's the whole _library_ of superhero movies to consider. Minus some of the bad ones, he guesses, like the first Hulk movie…and the second…and, like, all three Spiderman movies with Toby—

"Stiles."

"Huh?"

Derek sighs against the back of his neck. "You forgot your Adderall."

Stiles starts to turn his head, but catches himself. "How did you know I take Adderall?"

"Where do you think the alcohol came from?"

Right. Well, that's…right. "So…you, uh…you went through my medicine cabinet?" He tries to sound casual. Meanwhile, in his head, he's running a rush-order inventory of everything he's got in that cabinet, because that could definitely be embarrassing. Aside from a box of condoms – he jokes with Scott that it's pretty much wishful thinking, but maybe not anymore – and a few other things that he's _pretty_ sure you'll find in the medicine cabinet of every warm-blooded male, he thinks he's actually in the green.

He's just glad his acne cleared up last year.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Sorry."

"I told you: don't apologize. Just answer my question." It would sound harsh, except his voice sounds more idle than anything, and his fingers are stroking this really soft, really distracting pattern over his hip. "What other thing?"

Stiles swallows thickly and hopes against hope that Derek doesn't hear his heartbeat pick up. This close, he can probably feel it. "You know," he says, a _little_ bit more steadily than he feels, "four letters, starts with an 'l', ends with an 'e.' That thing."

"What is this? A game of charades?" Derek says.

There's an awkward sort of silence after that, and yeah, Derek _has_ to be able to feel his heartbeat. He's pretty sure the whole _neighborhood_ can.

But then, "Which one?"

Stiles starts to turn his head, but Derek lets out this low sort of growl that Stiles sees more than hears, and he swallows again so he can speak. "Huh?"

"There are two things that start with 'l' and end with 'e.' Which one?" He almost sounds…amused. Like he's humoring Stiles, but not in the bad way. It's kinda…nice. Not getting told to shut up, not getting ignored.

He gives a one-sided, and he's, like, _stupid_ happy when it doesn't hurt. "I don't know," he answers. It's a lie. He knows exactly which one it is for him, which one he feels for Derek. He thinks he probably knew it when he jumped in after him in the pool today.

"Hm." Derek shifts, and for a brief, irrational second, Stiles panics. But then he presses his lips against the shoulder Stiles just shrugged and slips a knee between Stiles's legs so that it's kind of hard to tell where one of them stops and the other one starts, and Stiles is totally okay with that. "I do." And then his lips are right up next to Stiles ear, and he can feel his breath against across his skin as he whispers, "Rhymes with dove."

Stiles doesn't think it's coincidence that Derek's hand slides up his chest and settles, almost possessively, right over his heart.


End file.
